


Toothache

by grandfatherclock



Series: Half-Seconds at a Time [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Implied/referenced loss of autonomy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 12:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21253718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: Jester Lavorre is lovely, and it makes Yasha's head hurt.





	Toothache

**Author's Note:**

> The trigger warning for implied/referenced loss of autonomy is due to a reference to Yasha being mind controlled by Obann in this fic.
> 
> The prompt is _book_.

_Jester Lavorre is small_, Yasha thinks. Her face is freckled like her arms and her knees, and her dress flutters in all the different colours that she chooses and then changes overtime—a blue skirt at the start, with white lace perfect in how it embroidered it, and then there was that one day in the Xhorhouse, a perfect afternoon where she wore a little red dress that exposed part of her thighs. Her face was all dark when Yasha stumbled through a compliment. _You look like the stars_, she said, and then immediately felt her gut wring, because that was a compliment common amongst her people, to say they looked like stars, to say Zuala— _Zuala_, her heart trills, and even _thinking_ that name and enunciating those syllables in the solace of her own mind, not that it's much solace at all, kind of wrecks her brittle heart—looked like, looks like, is like the _stars_. Her face flushed, and then her blue-purple-wretched-murderous eyes were _averted_, shoulders hunched as she _ran_, she's always _running_—

Jester trills out a lovely laugh now. It's three days later, and her dress is a soft pink, the layers all pretty as she fiddles with one of the straps against her perfect freckled shoulders. It's a striking contrast, and Yasha feels herself unconsciously reach forward, seeing where Jester's—_lovely_, her mind whispers, and then hates itself for whispering, _gods, you fucking creature, you find her lovely_—strand of hair is caught in the intricacies of her dress. "I can…" Her voice trails off as Jester furrows her eyebrows, and then she winces, retracting her hand away. "I mean, of course, I was just, you know, noticing that your hair got caught, and…" She's so fucking nervous. _She's so fucking nervous._

"_Oh_," Jester says, her eyes wide. They're a lovely violet, a lighter shade than the purple of one of Yasha's own, and she should hate herself right now for the way her gaze drags on those beautiful pupils, trying to memorize the arresting colour of them. She does. She doesn't. She _does_. Yasha _remembers_ the heartbreak on Jester's face all that time ago, the way her expression just fucking _broke_, the way that her lovely—_lovely_, her mind murmurs, _didn't you just devastate a perfectly lovely person?_—eyes just seemed to… crack. _Yasha_, she screamed, and Yasha in that controlled-not-controlled state—everyone _says_ she was controlled, but _fuck_, she notices how Fjord isn't alone with her in the same room if he can help it—nearly fucking _winced_, waiting for some hellish ice shards to just _rip_ into her skin. "Yasha," Jester is saying now, and her voice is so _soft_ as she tilts her head up, gesturing for her to continue in fixing her strap.

Yasha pretends she doesn't know why Jester holds her breath as her pale hand comes closer. She pretends she doesn't see the blush that creeps on those blue cheeks of hers, Jester's breath so… _uneven_ as Yasha gently pulls out her hair strand. Jester Lavorre is _small_, and she looks up at Yasha so very _gently_, her head tilted so her hair falls on her right shoulder. All Yasha can think about is the waterfall by the forest, close and far from where her tribe settled. Close because it _was_. Far because her _party's_ ideas of _far_ makes Yasha realize the aching distances she traveled in her youth weren't really close at all. "Hey, Yasha," Jester whispers, and they're standing _close_, right up where Yasha's shadow cascades over Jester. She's so _small_, her arms toned and perfect, and Yasha widens her eyes as Jester eagerly grabs her hand, turning around to drag her in some other direction. They're standing in the hallway to the Xhorhouse, and Jester is _pulling_ her. "I want to show you all the _really_ awesome things I drew on my canvases and my _book_ while you were _gone**.**"_

_Gone_, Yasha thinks numbly. She should be gone, why isn't she _gone_—and _oh_**,** Jester's _hand_ is tightening on hers. Her blue lips are curved in a smile, but they're so _sad_, her eyes heavy and tired, screaming without meaning to how _very_ much she wants to help, how she hates people being gone, how she wants to _fix this_ and will do anything in her power to be able to have half the chance, no matter how much it costs her. Yasha furrows her eyebrows and wonders how to explain to her that she doesn't _need_ to, that Yasha's been cursed and wretched since the day she was born, and though her mouth opens, the words don't come out. She isn't _good_ at this, _meant_ for this, and all she can quite manage is a soft smile, and a hand on Jester's shoulder. She's touching her bare skin, and Jester _shivers_, making Yasha's lips widen in their smile and heart break even further, all at once. Instantaneously. "Show me," she says, and a sunny smile breaks on Jester's face. "Show me your art."

Jester _squeals_, and Yasha… sighs, her face all fond. This, whatever _this_ is, isn't enough, but… her throat constricts and she forces breath after painful breath. It's enough for right _now_. Jester leads her, and Yasha—

Yasha _follows_.


End file.
